Epilouge a fairy story
by lipstick
Summary: What Maedhros did next. He's alive dont you know (AU)
1. Indefinate Leave to Remain

Title: Epilogue- A Fairy Story  
  
Disclaimer: Maedhros and Maglor, and any other pointy-eared types they name check in this story belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.  
  
Warning: This story is extremely AU! And a little swearing (only in Ch1)  
  
Also note: For this fic to make any sense at all, it would help if you have read my "The Difference between a Seagull and a Phoenix" fic. (Credited to Stephanie 65 here at ff.net - she is also me.) If you haven't you can get by with knowing three things.  
  
1) Maedhros didn't jump at the end of the Silmarillion, so is still knocking about.  
  
2) He is not very nice  
  
3) He has a rather dirty mouth on occasion.  
  
If that is not enough to put you off, please continue.  
  
**************************************************************  
  
I still wear my hair long and braided.  
  
That means, I can still find someone willing to braid my hair for me.  
  
At this particular point in time, she is called Josie.  
  
Josie lives in New York City.  
  
Her apartment is a palace. I do not know what she does to fund such an extravagant dwelling, neither do I care. Whatever it is, it keeps her busy. So I am free to take long lazy soaks in her marble bathtub, free to spend afternoons wandering where I will.  
  
I do believe I have finally learnt how to take care of myself.  
  
And no, I do not wake up every morning and think shit I am a kinslayer.  
  
***********************************************************  
  
I have never had nightmares. I do not dream at all. I do not know if this has always been the case, but I cannot remember dreaming, ever. I realize this is a rather unusual state of affairs for an elf. To tell the truth I have never been very good at sleeping.  
  
My brother Makalaure dreamt enough for two. When I was brought back from Thangorodrim, he certainly had nightmares.  
  
I have two items alone in my possession: a red jewel, the Elena that my father gave to me many years ago in Valinor, and my rather spectacular, if slightly shop-soiled elven Hroa. Which is more than enough to get by.  
  
I like my body a lot. Some people, particularly those who have some knowledge of what it and I have been through, find that hard to believe, but I really do. It survived when my mind could not, and I feel I owe it some respect.  
  
Right now, I am showing that respect by lying on my stomach, reading in the sunshine. The birds are particularly noisy today, which makes it harder than usual to concentrate. It must be because it is spring.  
  
There is one bird that is really drawing attention to itself. It is not in any way spectacular in appearance, it is just another dull blackish bird of the common variety, the sort that usually contents itself with mimicking the ring tones of mobile phones. This particular specimen however, is a virtuoso. I have never in all my days heard a bird sing so beautifully. And I have heard the nightingales of Lorien.  
  
Little filit, I think, what whim of Yavanna made you such a beautiful freak?  
  
My brother Tyelkormo could talk with the birds of the air. It is a skill that I never had much interest in. However, I know enough to get by with other life forms. It is a gift all Quendi have in some measure. I certainly know enough to see this bird wants my attention. It has landed right in front of me, several inches from my nose.  
  
"Shame on you, Maedhros son of Feanor. Shame on you oath-breaker."  
  
And damn you creature of Manwe to haunt me so. I am not ready for a lecture from one I could so easily crush beneath my left boot.  
  
"I kept my oath." I reply. "I regained the Silmarils. What I did with them afterwards is my own affair."  
  
The bird just shakes its head and continues its refrain.  
  
"Shame on you."  
  
Just as I am about to reach out to wring the pitiful creatures neck, it takes to the air again. It flies in close so I can feel the air from the wing beats on my face.  
  
"Filit is held. Filit is captive."  
  
Oh. That oath.  
  
"Tell me where."  
  
With that, the little creature flies in close and whispers an address in my ear. Then, it turns tail and is gone.  
  
The address is in London, England.  
  
**************************************************  
  
Josie always leaves at least one of her credit cards in the apartment, in case she is mugged or in some other way separated from her handbag. It does not take too much rummaging to find the drawer where she keeps it. I have ordered aeroplane tickets before. The sales clerk on the phone has no reason to suspect me. I know I must be quick. She is not stupid that Josie. When she returns home to find me missing, ethereal spirit or no, one of the first places she will look is in the bedside drawer. I do not wish to arrive in England to awkward questions from Interpol. I must be gone before my misdemeanour has been detected.  
  
Concorde it is then, first class while we are at it. I am royalty after all.  
  
The ticket makes a slightly larger dent in Josie's finances than I had anticipated. I hold my breath while the transaction is processed, hoping her credit limit will take the battering. It does. I slip the card in my pocket and leave the apartment forever.  
  
Really, what did you expect me to do, pawn the Elena? Needs must as mortals are so fond of telling me. It is always a danger for mortals to become involved in the affairs of the other kindreds, and compared to many, Josie has got off lightly. She still has a pulse.  
  
**********************************************************  
  
The journey passes smoothly enough. I am mildly amused to find I will arrive in London at almost exactly the same time I departed America. I would think you who have so little time would be more careful with it. I also hoard some of the complimentary refreshments in my coat. One must travel prepared after all.  
  
When I arrive in Heathrow Airport, everything goes smoothly. My passport is a fake of course, one of those international ones given to the lucky few born on aeroplanes and so forth. Do not ask me how I got my hands on such a document. Having been around since before there were humans, let alone nations, I think it is no more than I deserve.  
  
They put a stamp on it, "Indefinite Leave to Remain". I find this very funny indeed.  
  
There are probably not many visitors to London who disembark from Concorde and promptly jump the underground barriers, but I am one. I swing gracefully behind the Australian traveller in front of me, and I am away. I have a little brother to save. At the airport, I had flicked through of one of the many A-Z street maps on sale, and now know, exactly which of the tangled threads of the subterranean railway will take me to my destination. London's system is marginally less confusing than New York's. There it is slow or express trains. Here all trains are slow.  
  
I still have no idea as to who holds my brother captive. From the state of the place where I emerge, it is someone unpleasant. Although the streets are crowded with the respectable, the buildings could only have been designed to crush souls. The drains stink. Everything is covered in a thick layer of grime. The trees are not worthy of the name, and everywhere on the ground are hoards of gray scuttling birds, that look like mutants. They look like someone has tried to do to birds what Morgoth did to elves. Pigeons, I think, these winged orcs are called.  
  
Things do not improve the further in I walk. I am headed towards the river now, salt and slime competes with dustbins for my nose's attention. Along this road, some optimists have built shiny new glasshouses amid the rotting brickwork and industrial panelling. They look like pretty soap bubbles in a sewer. They make me think of throwing stones. The glass buildings thin out as the Thames gets nearer. My destination is the grimmest building in the street.  
  
It is a large building. It manages to combine the worst of the two architectural styles most common to the road, dark Victorian brickwork façade with bloated out cheap modernist to the rear. Brown and white signs point to the entrance down a side alley. There is no number, just a name - Saint Saviours Hospital.  
  
There's only one kind of hospital that has its main door in an alley. The sort where all the patients can at least stand. This is not a place that concerns itself with the petty foibles of the mortal Hroa.  
  
To borrow another modern linguistic curio, Makalaure has gone and gotten himself banged up in a loony bin.  
  
Loony, from lunatic, one crazed by the moon. Once again, the twisted logic of the mortal mind escapes me. For what has the last fruit of Telperion to do with the myriad daylight torments under which even minds of the Eldar can crack? And my brother is older than the silver patron of the despairing. Although, that in itself may not offer him protection.  
  
For the first time in millennia, I am afraid.  
  
I was not afraid, not even in the worst ravages of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. You may see your own death in my eyes, but you will also see the certainty that you shall never be the death of me. I learnt that during my own time in captivity. Nobody will be the end of Maitimo Nelyafinwe, except Maitimo himself. That is the white light, the horror, behind my beautiful Calaquendi gaze.  
  
Just because I have not chosen to do so yet, does not mean I do not retain the right to be my own destroyer. That is why I am afraid.  
  
And for the first time in millennia, I remember how courage feels. It is an oddly pure feeling. The doors to the reception area are closed but not locked, so I push my way inside. They are heavy, lined on both sides with metal. The sort of doors you bar in a siege.  
  
Inside, it is all daffodils in the sunshine. Someone has painted the entire entrance bright yellow. After the many shades of gloom in the world outside, it comes as a shock. I want to laugh. It is like storming an orcish encampment, only to find them taking afternoon tea. There is even a print of Van Gooch's Sunflowers framed on one wall. Chosen, I presume, by someone with an over active sense of irony. Or none at all.  
  
A threadbare security man by the door, dozing on a chair, is the only visible evidence the residents of this building may not wish to retain their tenancy. But it is enough. No amount of buttercup brightness can reduce my sense of unease, or my sense of purpose. I must get my brother out. Saint Saviours is no place for the unredeemable.  
  
"I am here to see my brother," I tell the receptionist.  
  
"What's his name?" she replies.  
  
"Makalaure."  
  
"There is no one of that name here."  
  
"He also goes by Maglor, or Kanafinwe," I add as she continues to look blank.  
  
"Tell me," I say. "Is there anyone here with ears like mine?"  
  
Finally, she gives me her full attention.  
  
"I'll radio someone to take you down," she says.  
  
I have a certain knack of getting people to do things for me. It is a skill that has come to me either from being royalty, or from being a cripple. I do not know which.  
  
Notes:  
  
The Elena was an invention of Cirdan's, I believe, although it has turned up in several Feanorian fics.  
  
Filit is Quenya for little bird. It was also a nick-name for Maglor, originally invented by Ithilwen. As it suits Maglor rather well, most other fic writers cannot resist using it too. I am no exception.  
  
As for Maedhros' oath to look after his little brother, that was an idea inspired by Klose's story "A Tale of Two Brothers" in which a very young Maedhros promises his grandfather to be the "best big brother in the world."  
  
Oh and Maglor got the trick with the bird from the Mabinogion - The Tale of Branwen Daughter of Llyr.- (When Branwen is held captive she trains a starling to carry a message across the ocean to her brother  
  
Maedhros is using Quenya names because he has a rather keen sense of ironic grandeur. His brother is far more modest.  
  
Maitimo - Maedhros  
  
Makalaure / Kanafinwe - Maglor a/k/a filit.  
  
Tyelkormo - Celegorm. 


	2. Troublesome Things

Troublesome Things.  
  
The door slams shut behind me and I hear a lock click. Sweat pricks under my hair. Hold it together, Maitimo I think. They must be trained to notice such things down here. A bad reaction to a locked door, an involuntary shudder at instruments of restraint, all signs of one who has been a guest of such houses before. I can feel every muscle in my body and I command each one to be still.  
  
I have never once in my long life denied my elven nature. It has never been necessary. I have either lived in cultures where beings such as myself are acceptable, and so have been left to do as I will, or I have lived where the very idea of me is unthinkable, and so again have been left pretty much to myself.  
  
People also assume I am, in fact, a very elaborate fake. Particularly since that damned movie came out.  
  
Down here however, the rules of reality are much stricter. What can pass as minor eccentricities of character or curious tricks of DNA in the daylight, all pose troublesome questions here. There is nothing like the appearance of an elf on a locked ward to set the patients progress back by months.  
  
Of course, there already is one elf on this ward. That is why I am here after all.  
  
The nurse introduces me to Dr Stephens. He too is in regular clothing. So we are all in modern dress. It changes nothing. He still has all the power. I still should not be in existence. The psychiatrist certainly catches his breath when he sees me. I am sure he is thinking somewhere along the lines of - oh no not another one.  
  
"I did not realize Maedhros had any family," said the doctor.  
  
"Maedhros?" I say.  
  
"Oh, well that is what we have always called him. He said it a lot. We assumed it was his name."  
  
Now my conscience pricks me. Oh well little brother, I have come to rescue you in the end. It is more than you ever did for me.  
  
"His name is Makalaure," I say quietly. "Kanafinwe Makalaure."  
  
The doctor leads me into a small, untidy office and offers me tea. Hot liquid could be a reasonable weapon if it came to it, I think. I refuse. I do not wish to indulge my more dramatic thoughts.  
  
"If you wouldn't mind," said the doctor, "I have a few questions to ask. It would be very helpful to have some background on your brother's case. He has never been very communicative with us."  
  
"I may have some questions for you, also." I reply.  
  
The doctor ignores me. He pulls down a large blue file from a shelf, opens it and removes a pink edged piece of paper from the front. I cannot see what is written on it, but I do register a lot of question marks and crossings out. He then takes a similar, but empty pink form from a little set of drawers on his desk.  
  
"Cannofinway Mackolawray, " mispronounces Dr Stephens. I spell it out for him. I also point out Kanafinwe is the nearest thing my brother has to a surname. The second pink form duly receives its first scribbling out.  
  
"How old is he?"  
  
"I do not know. We do not count such things."  
  
The doctor gives me a curious look. The last thing he needs is for me to start backing up whatever broken history my brother has managed to give them. One can be discounted as a lunatic. Two, and the odds on the tale being true increase fifty per cent.  
  
This man has authorized my brother to be restrained, drugged, Eru only knows what on the basis that tale was a delusion. I do not think he is a cruel man. I also do not think he wants to hear the story is true.  
  
"Where are you from?" He asks. Even though I speak English fluently, I have not lost my obvious Quenya accent. Mixed with the American I have picked up, I sound like Greta Garbo. Or so I have been told.  
  
"Aman." I say. There is no point lying. In a culture where my presence is unacceptable, everyone starts constructing narratives the minute they behold me. If Dr Stephens so wishes, he may construct a perfectly fine narrative about us belonging to a little known ethnic minority. One perhaps where the rules of reality are not so well defined. Shamanic cultures have existed in Siberia and the Eastern Balkans almost to this day, after all.  
  
It is not so very far from the truth. It may be the tale that can free Makalaure.  
  
"Do you know when Makalaure first came to Britain?"  
  
"No." I do not add that I suspect he has never left.  
  
"Did you have much access to Western Culture when you were growing up?"  
  
"No." I choose to elaborate. It may well be helpful. "We had never seen a motor car or a television."  
  
"I see. And you obviously did not speak English."  
  
"No. We spoke Quenya. Or Sindarin, when we had to speak to other tribes. I assume my brother could speak very little English when he was brought here?"  
  
"Do you know, we assumed he was speaking a made up language? We did try to identify it, but none of the translators we brought in had heard anything like it before. So we assumed it was gibberish."  
  
"It is not."  
  
"No," the doctor pauses. As if to reassure himself, he continues. "He was in a terrible state when he was brought in here."  
  
"Really? How long ago was that?"  
  
The doctor looks at the original form. "1993. Ten years ago now. He was brought in from a regional hospital, when it was closed down. Most of the patients were released under Care in the Community. But he was deemed a specialist case, and referred here."  
  
"By the way, you are his younger brother, I take it?"  
  
"No I am the eldest."  
  
The doctor looks confused. Somehow, the mathematics are not adding up. Makalaure has been here ten years, which would put him in his thirties by now, at least. I should by rights be pushing forty. But I am sitting here without a line on my face, looking I guess, not a day older than twenty five. For the first time he looks uneasy. I decide to be kind.  
  
"We age well, us Quendi." I reassure him. "That is what we call ourselves."  
  
As if looking for some stability, the doctor returns to the form. In the ethnic origin section, he ticks a box marked other, then scrawls "Kwendy" beneath it.  
  
**************************************************************************** **  
  
My brother is sitting on an unmade bed chewing on the plastic tag around his wrist. Rather curiously, the bedding is made up on the floor beneath the bed frame. His hair is tangled and unbraided, although still long. He is too thin. Despite the reasonable temperature in the hospital, he is wearing a woolen hat of the shapeless sort rather common these days. It hides the transgressive ears. Maybe that helps keep the worst of trouble away.  
  
"He goes through those tags like Blackpool goes through rock," the doctor said.  
  
It takes him a while to focus on me, but when he does he smiles. I only meant to take his hand, but before I know it I am sitting on the bed beside him, holding him close. Little bag of bones that he is, he still feels so familiar I am almost choked.  
  
I forgot what it was like to hold another Quendi. I was not much in the habit of cuddling even when there were plenty of us around. It feels strange, and not at all unpleasant to be able to sense another spirit in an embrace, even the damaged Fea of Makalaure. I can sense that too, damage done. Maybe that is what it felt like for the few ever privileged enough to hold me.  
  
"Maedhros?" he asks, still unsure if this time I am really here.  
  
"Yes, little filit. I am here. " I pause. Then, even though I am not all together sure if it is the best course of action, I add. "I have come to take you away from here."  
  
He smiles again. Then he looks troubled.  
  
"I knew you would. But is it very dark in Mandos?"  
  
"How should I know? Silly little Kano, what have you done to get yourself stuck in such a place?"  
  
"I do not know." He said slowly. Then, "It sounds so foolish, but do you know all the while I was here, right up until they did that thing with the electric, I thought I was an elf?"  
  
The doctor pricks up his own rounded ears. There is no word in any elven tongue for electric.  
  
Despite my presence, Makalaure has still not been able to put two and two together to make five. I let go of him, but keep my arm around his shoulders. Turning to the doctor, I speak in English once more.  
  
"He said something about electric. Something you did. What was that?"  
  
"Electro-convulsive therapy. I know, the name still frightens a lot of people, but really, it is quite safe. We only ever use it as a last resort, and he has made significant progress since then. We often had to restrain him, he was very violent, and he was harming himself quite badly. If I had known of your existence I would have asked your permission first."  
  
"Did you ask Makalaure's?" I ask.  
  
"Makalaure is detained under section. All his rights are passed on to his next of kin."  
  
"But you told him what you intended to do?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"How did he take it?"  
  
"Rather badly."  
  
I remember the bird. The poor creature must have been terrified.  
  
I hold on to Makalaure a little tighter. Of course, in the end it must have been easy to give in. To believe exactly what all the kind, concerned people around him had been telling him for so long. It is only a nightmare got out of hand. You are not a murderer, not accursed, you have never so much as seen a Silmaril. You are not well, you have schizophrenia, we can make that better. Irresistible, I can see it now.  
  
And I do believe these people are kind. They are healers after all, and healers have always been held in high respect among us elves. But I also cannot help knowing what I know.  
  
At first, you are proud. You say nothing will make you flinch, nothing will make you scream, and you are foolish, because you have staked your sense of self on something that can so easily be taken from you. Then you scream, you fight, until screaming itself becomes a form of defiance. You scream to let them know you are still there, still yourself. Then one day, you cannot even do that. Then you are truly lost, and you will believe you are anything, whatever you are told to believe you are.  
  
I am so tense I cannot shudder. My shoulders ache.  
  
"Why are you sleeping on the floor?" I ask my brother, to change the subject.  
  
"Because I get nightmares when I sleep on the bed."  
  
I think Makalaure has been having my nightmares again. It would explain his objection to the identity tag. I pull his hand down from his mouth, for he has been distractedly chewing throughout our conversation. I hold his wrist in my lap and smooth it. There are bad scratches on his arm from where he must have clawed at it.  
  
"Come on, "I say. "Let's go. Can you stand?"  
  
He nods, and does so. I stand behind him, holding him around his waist, pushing his shuffling feet forward.  
  
"What are you doing?" said the doctor, also rising.  
  
"We are leaving." I say.  
  
"No," he said. I do not know what I did then. I am sure I only looked at him. My arms never left my brothers waist. But he falls back onto the chair all the same.  
  
I push my brother towards the door of the ward. It is still locked. I reach up with my good hand and pull the hat from my brother's head. I do not know if he has the spirit left in him to do what I need him to. Maybe with two, he will have the strength he needs.  
  
"Come on Makalaure, you can do this."  
  
Makalaure begins to chant. Softly at first, but soon stronger, until the voice sounds more like that of the Kanafinwe I knew. It gives an eerie feeling to the gray ward. The door unclicks loudly, then springs open. We head out, into freedom.  
  
"Wait," calls a voice behind us. "Wait!"  
  
It is the doctor. I ignore him, but he is running and we cannot move so fast.  
  
"Wait, I know what you are!" says the breathless voice behind us.  
  
"No you do not. Maedhros is a who, not a what." I reply, without turning my head.  
  
I feel someone grab my arm from behind. When his hand slides off the end, he screams. That must have been the final straw for his nerves.  
  
"Please," he said, almost begging now.  
  
"What?" I ask angrily. I can feel the heat in my eyes.  
  
"I know. I know I have made a terrible mistake. But please listen to me."  
  
I force myself to calm down and turn to face him, shifting my brother onto my right shoulder. The doctor looks terrified.  
  
"I know, I have made a mistake. I will not try and keep you here. But please.your brother he, he may not be human, but he is ill. I will stand by that. I saw him when he first came here. He was delusional. He was definitely seeing something that was not there. He hears voices. He has admitted as much. He was very distressed. In the other hospital, where security was not so tight, he tried to."  
  
"It is alright." I say. Poor Makalaure.  
  
"He needs to take medication. I wont give him any tranquilizers because I do not think he will struggle so much with you. But he does need to keep taking the anti-psychotics. Trust me."  
  
"I do." I say. "Thank you."  
  
The doctor walks away. As good as his word, he returns, not with security, but with two small white boxes.  
  
"He needs to take two tablets, every evening before bed. When they run out, give this letter to any doctor and they will prescribe some more."  
  
I really cannot see two small tablets a night being of much help against the curse of the Noldor. This man seems to think they are important, though. He risked his life to make sure Makalaure had them, and that in itself is a form of magic. The spirit in which they were given may have imbued them with a greater power than their chemical components.  
  
I put the boxes in my coat pocket. They are now rather full.  
  
He was a brave man that doctor. I nod, it is the nearest I can manage to a bow while still supporting Filit. It is all I can think to say.  
  
I hope he does manage to convince himself we were just some very unusually gifted Siberians. When the shock of us has worn off a little.  
  
*************************************************************************  
  
We sit on a wall outside the hospital. Yet more pigeons flock at our feet. The little bit of elven magic with the door has all but burnt out my brother.  
  
I too, am too tired for the moment to carry him any further. So we sit and watch the grimy world unfold around us.  
  
We are certainly not your average picture-postcard immortals. Me with my American twang, Makalaure with his psychosis. But we have survived, we may be the only such two who have. All that history can change you in ways one would never expect. And we are still good for a trick or two, aren't we? When the conditions are right.  
  
I know where it is I have to take my brother. I just have no Idea how I am going to get him there. Quite plainly, he cannot move another step. I look up to the sky and it gives me no answers. This is one little filit Lord Manwe has utterly deserted.  
  
"Wait here." I say to my brother, as if he could do anything but. He makes a strange noise when he realizes I am leaving, and I have to shush him a little. He reminds me of Ambarussa, when they were elflings.  
  
I return to the hospital reception and take two plastic glasses from the water cooler there. Nobody questions me, and I offer no explanations. When I am back on the wall, I remove the miniature bottle of champagne from my pocket and pour us both a toast.  
  
"To us and to the future." I say, and drink.  
  
I have to admit, I am a little shaken myself by this afternoon's events, and am rather glad of the alcohol. Makalaure has his nose in the glass, but does not drink.  
  
"It tickles," he said.  
  
"Will you stop acting like one village is missing its idiot and drink!"  
  
He takes an uncertain sip. His eyes widen at having a mouthful of bubbles, but he swallows and looks pleased enough.  
  
"I know, it probably is not wine as you remember it, but it is the best we have now."  
  
"Oh it is wine. Why did you not tell me that before?"  
  
He drinks more confidently this time. I cannot help but wonder exactly how much history Makalaure has missed.  
  
Neither of us have much appetite for the peanuts I am also hoarding. My brother opens the packet and starts throwing them, rather absent -mindedly, at the scrabbling pigeons.  
  
Looking at them, I notice their mangled feet. Like me, most of these birds appear to be amputees. In a moment of solidarity, I throw a few peanuts myself.  
  
We sit and drink champagne and feed the pigeons for quite some time.  
  
After a while, a hooded kid careers down the pavement on a BMX bicycle and scatters them. There is a loud whooshing sound, a flurry of wings and they are gone. I think they drop a few feathers in my lap. I look down.  
  
It was not feathers, but a small purplish piece of paper with a woman's face on it. It is a twenty pound note. In these latter days, the damned must help the damned.  
  
I stand and raise my hand, still grasping the strip of paper, towards the road.  
  
"Taxi!" I call out.  
  
************************************************  
  
Notes:  
  
Maglor's ability to open doors by chanting at them first appeared in Finch's "Under the Curse" story.  
  
Maedhros' comments on his own unacceptability are a little borrowed from Sethos' fic, "A Study in Human Weakness" although there it was his sexuality that was at issue. Maedhros has now managed to find himself in an environment where, theoretically at least, he has much greater freedom to do whatever he wishes. Except, of course exist. Some rules relax, others tighten as history unfolds.  
  
Code-switching:  
  
I know I use both Quenya and Sindarin names in this chapter. As I see it, Maedhros is speaking to his brother in Quenya, Maglor is answering in Sindarin. People having conversations in more than one language happens a lot round where I'm from. Maglor is using Sindarin, because somewhere in his jammed brain, he realises he is amongst strangers and Sindarin is therefore the correct language to use, despite the fact no one can understand it.  
  
"Detained under section" is Mental Health jargon. The full expression is "Detained under section three of the mental health act 1987". In other words, Maglor is deemed unwell enough to be locked up against his will.  
  



	3. Permanent Way

Permanent Way.  
  
"Keep the change," I say to the taxi driver, as I hand him the note. I then drag my brother to his feet and lead him by the hand into the station. He is still very dazed, his normal light footsteps made heavy and dragging by the weight of too much medication. He is almost asleep on his feet. He will have to wake up, soon. How it will be for him when that happens, I do not know.  
  
All I know is once, thousands of years ago, in a land now buried beneath the waters, I woke from a deep, drugged sleep with him beside me. I did not know my past, my present, or even my own name. I think I would have preferred it that way. To continue forever, numb and nothing in the blank white space my head was then. Makalaure was having none of it. He forced me to remember, forced my head down so I saw the bloody, bandaged mess where my right hand had been. It was a far more barbaric rescue than anything Findekano did. Even as the memories, all unwanted, came rushing back to me, and I started to shake from shock and terror, he held me. He put his arms around me and whispered into my matted hair:  
  
"It's alright, it is alright. I am here. I will be here beside you until the fear goes."  
  
I can do no more than repay the favour now.  
  
Makalaure leans heavily against me as we stand beneath the destination board waiting for our train to be announced. I hook my right arm about his waist to keep him from falling. We must look very peculiar.  
  
"Where are you taking me?" He asks.  
  
"Home," I say.  
  
"But I do not wish to go home."  
  
"Shush filit," I whisper. "You have to go home. You have been lost for far too long."  
  
"No," he murmurs. "No."  
  
"Alright," I say. I pull my arm back and turn to leave him swaying on the wide concourse. Within seconds, his arms are around me, clinging to my coat like a child.  
  
"Do not leave me." The panic in his voice cuts through the slur of the Largatcil.  
  
"I will not leave you. I shall never leave you ever again," I hug him back and stroke him a little until I feel the worst of the panic subsiding. Over his shoulder, I see people are really staring at us now. They can stare themselves blind for all I care.  
  
"But you must come home with me." I add. "It is the only way I know to make you well again."  
  
I let go of him, but he continues gripping on to my clothes. He is still firmly attached when our train is announced.  
  
As Makalaure is in no fit state to fight over it, I sit myself down in the window seat. He slumps down next to me, bumps his head against my shoulder and is gone again, off in one of those remarkable sleeps of his. Rather inconveniently, he has passed out on my one good arm. I do not have the heart to disturb him by dragging it back. He sighs, although I could not see how even his dreams could cut through the tranquillizers.  
  
The woman inspecting tickets is far more concerned with the beautiful sleeping elf on my shoulder than whether or not we have travel documentation. I watch the idea float out of her head the minute she claps eyes on us. All it takes is a few soft words from me and she walks away, convinced in her mind we have every right to be on this train. Somewhere beneath her conscious thoughts, she knows all is present and correct. Two battered, exhausted Quendi are finally making their way homewards to the western shores of the ancient world, nothing to get in a fuss about. We may not even be the first such ticketless creatures she has seen, whose paths in the end led them north and west. Although such thoughts will never enter her waking mind, deep down she knows it is as natural as starlight.  
  
As the last of the great gray metropolis flashes past us, I wonder if I shall ever see such a mortal city again. It is an oddly sentimental thought, one of the many lessons of a long life is that nothing is forever. I must have been quite tired myself to think like that. I even dozed, for a few minutes, I must have done. When my eyes focus again I can see rolling green pasturelands. I also have a very numb left arm.  
  
The train is heading due north, strait as a corridor. The fields are restful enough, although they too become monotonous after a while. It is a curiously empty landscape. As a very urban elf, I have become rather too used to having jostling humanity densely packed in on either side of me. I forget this must have been normality for me once. I find it unnerving. Maybe it will not only be my little brother who finds the journey home unsettling. I wonder if I will have the strength to take my own medicine. I tug my arm out from under Makalaure and wrap both my arms tightly around my own waist. Holding myself close, all I own, all I have been, all that has survived, I hug it into me.  
  
You are as strong as you have to be, my Hroa replies. So it always was.  
  
I have always had this strange relationship with my body. I am like milk that has gone stale, separated out, so my Fea floats on top of my Hroa but they never join. I think I had a slight tendency towards this even before Angband, It may even have been what helped me survive that. I find being touched, strange. It is as if my body registers the hands on my person, but my soul is miles away. Makalaure is one of the few I can stand to hold without that unusual sensation taking over me. Even he had to fight for it, for a while. However much I like my own Hroa, I find it damned hard to live in it sometimes.  
  
My brother could live quite happily in his own body. I know this, because he fell in love. I know elven love can sometimes appear cold to you aftercomers. We have all the time in the world, so a century apart can seem as nothing. We elves too can be oddly condescending towards your own hectic embraces. There is something both touching and pathetic about the way you love, stealing what joy you can while the clocks we never hear tick incessantly and that last journey into the night looms heavy on your horizons. So elves and mortals love in very different ways, generally speaking. Not my romantic fool of a little brother, however. The Noldo with the unnaturally beautiful voice fell toes over ear tips for a poet who taught him just what that voice could do. She was of course a Teleri. My brother learnt from the best.  
  
My brother fell for a Telerin poet just as the clocks of Valinor started to tick. In the middle of the intrigues, the whispers and the incessant smell of hot metal being forged into weaponry, Makalaure married a mousy little nis from the sea. My father cursed him as a fool for learning poetry from someone who could not even speak Quenya respectably. He did not try and stop them however. How could he, who had also in his time loved the only elf who could teach him? I can still see them in Formenos, heads down, together, studying, writing, while all other talk round our table was of treachery and impending war. The times, despite the walls of words they built against them, seeped in still. Just to look at them was enough to know, it was not the measured love of the Eldar they had. They loved like mortals. In fact, they loved like mortals with terminal diseases.  
  
She died at Alqualonde. Silly girl, run onto that ship with a sword in her hand, although I had never seen her hold one before, let alone learn to use one. I think at that moment, seeing her with her grip all wrong and her eyes still shinning I knew how insane their love was. She really did not know what she was doing. The sailor did. He knew she was a Teleri. That is why he slashed her chest with his knife before he pushed her into the water. He knew that particular invader could swim. Kin Slaying. I know, it is not an excuse, but it is what we all saw.  
  
He always said she made him a poet in the end.  
  
So I could understand why my brother threw the Silmaril into the sea. I can understand why afterwards he sat down by the tides, insensible. All he had ever loved was under the waves. I can also understand my brother's fear, because this journey too winds back towards the great water.  
  
Now listen to me, telling this little tear-jerker of a story, that was after all barely a foot note in the life of the great Makalaure, Prince of the Noldor. Maybe travelling backwards is softening me too, or maybe it is just having my brother beside me at last, I have to remind myself of who he is. I may have a memory long enough to take in millennia of experience, but that does not mean certain things become buried from time to time. I have to get the story clear, particularly as Prince Makalaure's grasp on his own story is rather shaky just now.  
  
Filit shakes his head a bit as if trying to clear it, then smiles up at me. Some time ago, the train finally lurched to the left, and we are headed westward now. The track bed is no longer the wide expanse used by the express trains with many lines for many stations. There are only two tracks now, there and back, and only one final destination. Permanent Way, they called these metal paths when they were first laid, hacked through the stone or floated over marshes. When they build the iron track over the old west road.  
  
We have left behind the rolling green country too. Either side of the line, low hills now rise, so we follow the course of a river, fast flowing over the rocks and stones it has washed down from the moorlands. The train weaves through broad oak trees, and this suddenly feels more familiar, more like a home that I once knew. When the mist rolls down from the mountains, it could be Hisilome. Laiquendi country at least. There is no mist today. In fact the sun has chosen the moment of my brother's awakening to burst through the clouds. Her light through the tree canopy is dappled and green. That must be why my little brother smiles.  
  
Then, right in the middle of this train carriage full of fare paying holiday makers and farmers, he starts to sing.  
  
Nobody, except me of course, understands the words, every one as beautiful as the voice that commands them. My brother sings freely, unhindered by the fog that clouds his speech. It is a simple song, of tree light, of gold, of living and being grateful for the fact. I had forgotten that too, just how much I loved to hear my brother sing.  
  
Unlike when most people start up impromptu musicals on public transport, no one tells him to shut up. No one throws potato chip packets or in any other way disturbs him. In fact the whole carriage falls into hushed silence. I can see the ticket collector and several others crowd round the door from the next car to hear what it is that is going on. People look up from their books, their crosswords and their sandwiches. Everyone is still and rapt and I am sure no one has ever heard the like of this little song before.  
  
When he stops it is very, very silent. Then suddenly a man says:  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Yes, thank you, " Adds a teenage girl with a bare midriff.  
  
"That was the most beautiful song."  
  
They all agree. It was wonderful. They feel lucky to have heard something so lovely. They are touched. It is a truly remarkable talent. I don't know how to tell you how grateful we are. Do you want anything?  
  
And so it goes on. Even when I reassure them kindly, we are fine, really, no we do not need anything, they still go up to the buffet trolley and shyly present us with more chocolate and cookies than we could ever eat. They put them on the table in front of us. Cups of tea too. They look a little embarrassed as they do so. Save it for later, they say. Or - no we couldn't just hear that and not give you something in return. I can tell as well many of these travellers are slightly surprised by their sudden burst of generosity. Surprised, but not worried. In their secret knowledge, the smarts that protect all mortals without them ever having to know they are there, they know too. They know they have just heard a Calaquendi of Valinor sing. So no one panics, In fact, after the last packet of shortbread has been laid before us, the whole carriage feels very peaceful.  
  
***************************************************  
  
Hisilome - Hithlum. Maedhros being pretentious again I'm afraid. 


	4. Return Journey

Return Journey.  
  
"You old now  
  
As the years reckon, but in that slower  
  
World of the poet you are just coming  
  
To sad manhood, knowing the smile  
  
On her proud face is not for you." R.S. Thomas.  
  
*************************************************************************  
  
As the line clears the hills, Makalaure starts investigating the brightly coloured packets before us. It appears the past ten thousand years have done nothing to diminish his sweet tooth. I still have no appetite, but I am rather glad he has found something to amuse him. He will need all the strength concentrated glucose can give.  
  
The river we have been following has broadened out now. It is fat and brown and lazy, and on its sides are mud banks. It is becoming tidal. On the north sides of the floodplain rise the real mountains. They are high enough to trap the clouds on their peaks, to hold their own weather system. They glisten blue in the wet air that clings to them, blue as rooftops, for they are slate mountains.  
  
We are very close now. We have only a few more miles to go along this estuary. Then the train will cross the river on the squat black viaduct, and we shall be in another country. We shall be in the past.  
  
The air is already damp from the uplands. The same damp air I woke to for centuries in Himring. It is a chill air, keen, clear beyond the words of mortals to describe. Although, I held my mountain home out of strategic necessity, I have to admit, I grew to love it. I even managed to behave myself well enough while I lived there.  
  
This breeze also carries upon it the ammonia smell of sheep. It may be the past we are headed for, but it is not our past alone. Mortals have made their home here too. By any standards except the modern, they have fair over run the place. There is no returning to Beleriand, for myself, not even in dreams.  
  
They still speak a language remarkably similar to Sindarin in these upland territories. They tell stories too, of the drowned lands beneath the sea, although none of the stories I have heard match my own history. I assume this little leathery people are confused in their memories, mixing the tales their land tells them with those of the wild countries eastwards from whence they came.  
  
I am rudely woken from my reverie by fillt standing up and looking for all the world like he is trying to flap his wings.  
  
Sedative drugs and food do not mix well, I should know that. I drag Makalaure to the toilet compartment and hold his hair off his face while he vomits.  
  
"That was horrible," he said afterwards, as I clean his face with some wet tissue.  
  
When we emerge, we are by the sea. We stand in the doorway, and I pull the window down so Makalaure can get some fresh air.  
  
After a while, the ticket inspector notices us standing there.  
  
"Is everything alright," she asks rather shyly.  
  
"Yes," I say, then "Wait, do you have a pair of scissors?"  
  
"I think there's one in the driver's cab," she pauses. "Do you want me to get it?"  
  
"Please," I say.  
  
When she returns, I take the scissors and cut the plastic tag from my brother's wrist. He looks shocked. I do not suppose it was so easy in his nightmares. I throw the bloodied plastic in the bin, while he stares at his hand until I kick him. I hand the scissors back.  
  
"Do you want the next stop?" she asks. That must be the usual reason for people standing in doorways.  
  
"Yes, why not," I say. Here is as good as anywhere.  
  
I help my brother down as the train stops. I do not know if it was the sleep, or the removal of the final symbol of his time in captivity, but he appears stronger. He can walk unaided. So we turn our backs on the little station on stilts, and walk out onto the marsh.  
  
This is intermediate land. Not so long ago it was beneath the sea, and something in the thin soil still remembers its blanket of waves, and wishes to revert. There is something unsettling about this, as if, if we stood here too long the incoming waves would rush in and sweep us away. It still happens, during spring tides  
  
Long ago, too long ago for human memory this sea was land. Then there were no spring tides, the salt marsh was lush green woodland, and the soil was thick and fertile.  
  
I do not know how to begin, so I sit down on the marram grass. Makalaure does the same.  
  
"Do you know who I am?" I ask.  
  
"You are my brother," he replies.  
  
"How do you know I am your brother?"  
  
"I recognise you".  
  
"What do you know about me?"  
  
"I do not know, I do not remember. I thought I had memories, but I was told they were wrong."  
  
"Did you want them to be wrong?"  
  
"I do not know. I am sorry, I am confused, have I done something wrong?"  
  
"No filit, you haven't done anything wrong. " I realize I am lying.  
  
"Yes, " I continue. "You did do something wrong, you did something terribly wrong. As did I. But we are still here and we cannot change it now."  
  
"What did I do?"  
  
"You killed other elves, other people like us. For a Silmaril."  
  
"Oh."  
  
I do not know what I expected him to say.  
  
"You are an elf, you know that, don't you?"  
  
He hugs his knees.  
  
"I am scared."  
  
"I know, I know, shush. We do not have to let anyone else know that. It is better if we do not. But you must know what you are, or you will be lost forever. Just tell me you know and I promise I will not let anyone hurt you for it."  
  
He nods. I think that means he accepts his immortal status.  
  
"When you see things that aren't there, what do you see?"  
  
He talked a little then, and it was not the blood red nightmares of a kinslayer I had been expecting. It was mostly, us, Atar, Ambarussa bursting through the woodland on to a London hospital ward. Me, teaching Ereinion how to jump of a wall in Himring, in the brief summer before the Dagor Bragollach. Findekano throwing a fit when he found us. Makalaure and I arguing over what was to be done about Carnistir, that could have been on any number of occasions. Rather mundane hallucinations, all in all.  
  
"Do you know where those people are now?"  
  
"No."  
  
"They are gone Makalaure. They have all passed in to the West a long time ago, one way or another."  
  
"We are in the West."  
  
"But this is as far as we can go. They have returned to Valinor, and we did not."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because we stole the Silmarils."  
  
He looks like he is taking that in, at least. Then I remember something, too.  
  
"You wanted to go back, but I forced you to stay and redeem the oath."  
  
If it had not been for me, Makalaure could have been back with those he loved. So, guilt caught up with me, in the end.  
  
"No," he said, after a while. "I was not a child and you did not force me. It was my decision."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Because I am a poet Maedhros."  
  
"I do not understand."  
  
"What is the point of pretty words if none can hear them? What is the point of words that change nothing? Because that is what would have happened had I returned to Valinor, I would have become a memory, and I could not do that."  
  
He pauses.  
  
"Call it the vanity of artists, if you will."  
  
I smile.  
  
"And you brought me here to show me the sea that was once our home."  
  
"Yes."  
  
He looks out over the waves. The sky has darkened again, it must be close to sunset. He sits in silence for a very long time, staring out.  
  
Finally he says:  
  
"It is just.it is just like holding a Silmaril."  
  
"What did you feel when you held the Silmaril?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
And that's the truth of it. It was the same for filit as for me, then.  
  
I held the Silmaril in my hand and I felt nothing at all. The stone was useless. Not worth a kingdom, not worth murder, not worth the lives of the two children left to perish, not even worth the life of Tyelkormo's hound. It changed nothing. It was worth nothing.  
  
That was my inheritance. Do not think it did not burn. It burned so hard it was nearly an end of me. It was unbearable.  
  
I was shocked to find myself still alive. I was more shocked to find myself still in possession of enough sanity to go on. Still, I suppose I had practice in coming back from the dead, and filit did not.  
  
He is shaking now, sitting on the rough marsh grass with his arms round his knees, rocking. I think I have taught enough lessons for one day.  
  
"Come on," I say. "Let's get you somewhere safe."  
  
He looks at me blankly. There is nothing in those eyes at all, not even the question of where safe might be. I certainly do not know. But he lets me help him to his feet, and lead him inland once more.  
  
He is deathly cold. For the first time, I am afraid for him. I realize now his madness may have been the only thing that made life after Silmarils bearable. Without it, it may go badly for him.  
  
Not while I am here, I say to myself. Besides we Feanorians are remarkably hard to kill. I know, I tried to kill one once.  
  
As we walk back toward the station I find what I am looking for. At the end of a field stands a deserted trailer. The owner must rent it out during the holiday season. For now though, it is empty. It is also padlocked, but even I can make short work of that simple device. A few choice words and the lock falls into my hand.  
  
I drop my brother on one of the seats. He looks eternally grateful just to be lying down again, in fact within moments he is asleep. I am not so easily satisfied. It is almost as cold in here as on the marshes, and I wish to give Makalaure something better than a tin shed. So I search every cupboard for remnants of habitation, and inspect every crude appliance for usefulness.  
  
The heater and stove are in working order, which is good, although the heater mists up the windows in minutes, advertising our presence. I hope darkness falls soon. These farmers are apt to guard their petty possessions jealously. There are blankets and pillows in one cupboard, some crockery and saucepans in another. Water comes out of the taps on command. I feel rather delighted with all of this, in fact it reminds me of nothing so much as being back in Tirion, the first time I had a house to run and brothers to feed.  
  
In Tirion I had seven brothers and we lived in a palace. Now I have only one and am in a camping trailer. We who chose to remain are all in reduced circumstances now. Tonight I count myself as one of the more fortunate ones. I feel I have done rather well.  
  
I did choose this fate. I could have gone back to Valinor. It is as my brother said, we did not return because we were not ready to become obsolete, a memory. We were not ready then and we are not ready now.  
  
At least, I am not ready now. As for Makalaure, I do not know. I wish he did not sleep so much. Even that terrible medication the mortals gave him could not do this. I cover my brother with the thickest of the blankets, and sit down on the floor beside him. I stroke his hair, as if I could stroke the will to live into him.  
  
Return journey, this has happened before. Except our places were different. Makalaure, stroking what hair was left to me, lifting me up.  
  
"Drink this, come on. It will not make you sick, I promise. Please try."  
  
I can still remember the taste. He gave me milk, like an elfling. Which I suppose is what you give those who return from the dead, who have to learn, like an elfling, how to live all over again.  
  
Maybe I should give him the same now. It must be better than sitting here doing nothing. I give my brother a final pat, and stand up again. I pull my coat shut against the cold night, then head out the door.  
  
Notes:  
  
Maglor's sweet tooth is another invention of Ithilwen's that I have pinched.  
  
Yes, I am going with the Silm version of events in this story. Which means Maedhros has no Quenya name to give Ereinion, as he only got the one given him as Orodreth's kid.  
  
Carnistir - Caranthir  
  
Tyelkormo - Celegorm  
  
Findekano - Fingon (Ereinion's dad) 


	5. Ysbridau Tan

Ysbridau Tan.  
  
The night has become clear once more. There is no moon. Not even the latter day guardian of the insane can help Makalaure now. There is just me. Me under the starlight, and I am glad for in this silver glow I look almost believable. So I head out, back toward the little interrupted line of street lights where the farms are.  
  
But this is not dairy country. I cannot do as my kind of old has done, when in desperation they turned to stealing from these lowly farmsteads to meet their needs. Sometime long ago, when they too first became unbelievable, at least by the light of day. It is probably for the best. I have lead a rather sheltered life in some respects and I must confess I have no idea how to milk a cow. So burglary it is then, and it suits me, for though I am ancient, I am still a very modern elf.  
  
The latch on the back door is rotten wood not metal, so it requires more brute force than spells of Valinor to yield open. When I enter, the back kitchen is in disarray. The tiles are almost up off the floor in places, and various modern appliances, in no particular order are gathered along the sides, ramshackle, with no obvious signs as to which are still clinging to usefulness, and which are beyond repair. I can see one, however, under the work-surface, who's flat yellowed front I recognise as that of a refrigerator.  
  
I bend down, open it, and remove a large plastic container of semi- skimmed milk. The warnings about coronary heart disease must have spread even to these remote parts. As I look up, I realise I am not alone.  
  
He must be around fifty in mortal years, the man who stares back at me. He is holding a shotgun and staring, although he says nothing. He just stands there with the weary dignity of the rightful, no words necessary. I am very impressed that any mortal could sneak up on me so. I suppose he has the advantage of familiar ground.  
  
"I need milk, for my brother who is sick," I say.  
  
In this light, in this land, I am more than believable.  
  
He nods.  
  
"Ysbridau Tan," he says, slowly and without emotion.  
  
I nod. For that was our ancient name here. Spirits of fire.  
  
I cannot steal from this man who has so little. I may have been able to in the past, but I cannot now. Am I not now, finally, without dispute, High King of the Exiles? For am I not the eldest of the two that remain? They say royalty is as royalty does, at least round these parts.  
  
"Here," I say. "Take this, we have need of your help and I would give something in return."  
  
I put the milk down on the work-top, and reach my hand to the back of my neck. The chain comes undone at my touch, and I hold the jewel of Feanor, forged in Aman, out towards him.  
  
It is worth more than his farm. It is worth more than all the ragged farms in this wind blasted remnant of a mountain kingdom. It may well be worth more than this whole anachronism of a country. He blinks.  
  
"Take it. Bring my brother what he needs." I smile. "We are in the trailer at the bottom of your field. That can serve as rent as well."  
  
With that, I take the bottle of milk and leave him to his thoughts. He may have quite a lot of them tonight, even though he speaks very little. It is not every day one finds out one has fairies at the bottom of the garden.  
  
When I return, I shake Makalaure awake. I sit behind him holding him up and pull the blankets around us. I repeat the words he used, so long ago. He drinks and he smiles. Then he pus his head on my chest and is asleep again. He must be able to hear my heart beat. The first sound he ever heard. I can believe now he too will find his way back to life. I hold him, and watch the stars, until dawn makes them fade into the lightening sky.  
  
I wonder if living in a trailer and drinking milk out of meloware cups is what the wise meant by us remaining elves fading. After all, where is the line drawn? When an elf acts like a pointy eared mortal, have they not lost something of their very essence?  
  
Then I have no more thoughts. The next thing I know, it is full daylight, and my brother is kicking me.  
  
"Maedhros, there is someone at the door!"  
  
I disentangle myself from filit and open the door. The farmer is there, and he has already made good on his side of the bargain. He holds out a large box of groceries. They are early risers, these men of the land. I try my best to look immortal and thank him. I invite him inside, but he says no. He cannot resist a little curiosity though, I see him take a furtive peek in the doorway. He registers there is another such as myself in here. It was a very swift move for someone who looks so stolid. Then he leaves us alone.  
  
"What have you done, Russandol? "  
  
Curiosity from my brother too. that can only be a good sign.  
  
"Sold the last of our inheritance, little brother." I laugh.  
  
He pulls a face. Although he looks pleased enough as I start unpacking my order. A lot more milk, a leg of lamb, presumably some relation to the many fluffy creatures whose incessant baaing I can hear even now, potatoes, plenty of fruit, biscuits - please show some restraint this time Makalaure, bread, butter, cheese and tinned soup. Not bad at all.  
  
And, at the bottom of the box, glinting red in the sunlight, the Elena.  
  
"You exchanged the Elena for the milk you gave me."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I love you, you foolish elf."  
  
It is true. Whoever else I have loved, I always loved him, brightest and best of all.  
  
"Oh. And he, he gave it back?"  
  
"Yes filit."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because he is wise. Wise enough to know not to get mixed up with the likes of us."  
  
"Feanarioni"  
  
I smile.  
  
"We have come through bliss to woe. The other now we will try: through sorrow to find joy."  
  
"Maedhros?"  
  
"They were father's words as we left Tirion. Do you know I really think that was all he wanted in the end, joy. Because I never think he knew happiness, not truly. "  
  
"And us? Do you ever think we can find joy?"  
  
"I do not know. But I do think we ought to try. For his sake."  
  
Notes.  
  
Ysbridau Tan (The a in Tan should have a circumflex accent. It is a long a sound) is old term for fire fairies. Literally translated it means spirits of fire.  
  
Feanarioni is Le Chat Noir's very impressive term for the family Feanor.  
  
Maedhros quotes the Silmarillion, "Of the Flight of the Noldor." (Page 91 in my edition)  
  
Yes, I am playing rather fast and loose with the "Laws and Customs of the Eldar" with regards to Elven fading. I realise even had Maedhros not jumped on that fateful night, correct canon would probably have it that both he and his brothers physical forms would have faded by now.  
  
Well, 1) Both Maedhros and Maglor's fea are so damaged in this fic that I find it hard to believe they would have the power to burn out their bodies. (Maedhros says somewhere he thinks his body is stronger than his mind) In a way, their damage has saved them.  
  
2) I disagree with the Professor on this point (yes I know they are his elves, but I do) The Silmfics section has doubled in size here at ff.net even in the three months I have been here, and most fics seem to be elf centric. And that is only one example of the power that elvenkind still holds.  
  
Personally, I think elves will be around, and in their bodies, for just as long as us aftercomers need them to do so, which is probably until the end of Arda.  
  



End file.
